Dallas Buyers Club (2013)

B

While reflecting on some of the films I've seen so far this year, I've noticed an interesting trend, though I'd be naive to think that it's genuinely a "trend" and most certainly, it's nothing new. But I've been thinking about how many of this year's quality films succeed largely based on their ability to allow the masses to deeply comprehend what it's like to live the life of someone that most of us will never experience.

Call it the year of empathy building.

Four films spring instantly to mind. "Gravity," with its spare plot, left enough breathing room for us to contemplate true isolation and the stresses on an astronaut like no other film about space that preceded it. "12 Years a Slave" seems to be gaining stature as the greatest-ever filmed look at the ground-level atrocities of slavery, and I've spoken to a few African-American friends who have told me that though the stories of their families' past and their generational connections to slavery were always discussed and respected, this is the film that cracked open that experience on an emotional level.

The third film in my "empathy series" is the one I'm talking about here, "Dallas Buyers Club," which chronicles the struggle in the mid-1980s for those diagnosed with HIV/AIDS to navigate both the fledgling drug treatment bureaucracy and the fear-filled ignorance of an unenlightened public. The forth film, a sort of contemporary counterpart in some ways to "Dallas Buyers Club," is the excellent "Fruitvale Station," a film that anyone who is not black needs to watch to better understand just how the residue of racial injustice is still stuck on our fingers.

In my estimation, it's a great year when so many films have the real potential to generate true empathy in audiences. Perhaps this is even one of the measuring sticks we could use to define what makes a movie great. Alfred Hitchcock famous explained that a full quarter of the camera shots in his films were through the eyes of a character to draw the audience into the film as if they were a part of them. This year, the narratives themselves are, on some level, accomplishing the same thing.

"Dallas Buyers Club," if nothing else, will shock you into anger and sadness, thanks most of all to two brave and fantastic performances. Matthew McConaughey's shocking physical transformation and gut-level commitment to the role of real-life electrician Ron Woodroof is the cinematic yang to the yin of Tom Hanks' performance in Philadelphia. It is a primal performance, a fantastic achievement in a career so noticeably on the rise that McConaughey has to be a sure bet for an Oscar nomination in a year packed with fantastic leading male performances.

Of equal note here is the work of Jared Leto as Rayon, a drag queen with AIDS who strikes up a partnership with Woodroof to help distribute medications to treat the disease that have not been approved by the FDA. Perhaps best remembered for the TV series "My So-Called Life," Leto quietly accumulated a few solid performances but in recent years has put his most public efforts into his band 30 Seconds To Mars. This performance, however - if the award season tea leaves are any true indication - is starting to feel like a coronation. And Leto pulls off the feat of breathing a genuine humanity into the kind of character that would otherwise shock and scare the filmgoers of middle America.

The plot of "Dallas Buyers Club" - based on real events - is probably the reason why the film works as well as it does. This is no "gay film." In fact, though I'm sure that gay audiences have and will continue to support the movie with their ticket purchases and comments about the film, there is no doubt that this movie has got to be about as enjoyable for them to watch as "12 Years a Slave" or "Fruitvale Station" is to a black person in America. This is raw pain: angering, frustrating, defeating - so maddening that you wonder why you're spending you time watching because there isn't anything "enjoyable" about it, and catharsis shouldn't hurt this deeply.

Ron Woodroof is straight. In fact, he's downright homophobic, almost to the point of being a caricature of every homophobic, red state-living, beer-guzzling man in America. It's 1985, and the film opens with McConaughey's Woodroof banging two country girls backstage at a rodeo, just to make it clear to us from the get-go that this man ain't no pussy. So when the already-thin Woodroof suffers a few freak medical mishaps and is told he has HIV, he responds with an acid-spewing tirade of anti-gay slurs and indignant denials and retreats to his trailer to drink, do blow, and watch his buddy bang two local girls (or hookers?) while he watches from the couch.

Woodroof refuses to accept the doctors' diagnosis of 30 days left to live, but eventually faces it as he must, struggling all the while to comprehend how he could have contracted a gay man's disease as his friends start to learn of his situation and abandon him. He begs the benevolent Dr. Eve Saks (Jennifer Garner) to allow him to participate in a study to test out AZT, a new drug to combat HIV. He quickly becomes as infuriated as any of us would be that someone with such a finite timeline on Earth would run a 50 percent chance of being given a placebo instead of the actual drug, just because that's how studies are conducted if drugs are to receive FDA approval. He starts looking for another way to score the potentially dangerous drugs, knowing that he has nothing at all at this point to lose.

The chance encounter that alters the course of the rest of Woodroof's life occurs during one particular hospitalization when he discovers that he is sharing a room with Rayon (Leto), a drag queen who reveals that he is taking part in a drug study and sharing his medication with a friend for a high payout. After suffering through Woodroof's obligatory homophobic tirade, Rayon and Woodroof strike up a partnership to expand Rayon's scheme into something bigger. Before long, Woodroof is making trips to Mexico to purchase cases of unapproved drugs and supplements to sell to men suffering with HIV and AIDS at home. Through his research and the help of a clever but disbarred doctor now living in Mexico and operating out of a ramshackle clinic, Woodroof comes to see AZT as a poison and a threat to improving the health of people living with AIDS.

Woodroof and Rayon rent hotel rooms and begin a "buyers club," modeled on groups that have sprung up in other major cities. The concept is that people pay a monthly fee and then have access to the drugs that they need, which allows those who run the clubs to avoid - on a technicality - the status of being someone who is selling unapproved drugs illegally. Their patrons are buying "club memberships." A central conflict of the film is Woodroof's constant run-ins with Dr. Saks' supervisor, Dr. Sevard (Denis O'Hare) and the authorities both local and federal, particularly those from the slow-moving FDA.

As expected, "Dallas Buyers Club" makes the Food and Drug Administration into a one-dimensional villain, an institutional bureaucracy of a government enforcing ridiculous policies that cost lives and wield power over groups of people they don't like. And frankly, when you come to empathize with what it might have been like to have HIV in the mid-to-late 1980s, it seems unlikely that there would be any other reasonable way to view the FDA. This insight provides viewers with the film's emotional motor, which is an underlying sense of anger and injustice at the least and, for some viewers, most likely a full-blown sense of rage.

We also get a moment similar to the one in "Philadelphia" where the straight man comes to respect - at least on some level - the gay man, though I must say that it's no less powerful or satisfying here just because you can see it coming. In fact, it's genuinely emotional here, in large part because the two men - for as profoundly different as they are - share the same disease. Some of the film's best moments come when the straight Woodroof is given the same public treatment as a gay man.

Where "Dallas Buyers Club" suffers a bit for me is in its direction, and Jean-Marc Vallee does not have an extensive filmography to suggest a rich history or clear style as a film maker. This film levels out on the same emotional plane for long periods of time. It relies heavily on cut transitions and jarring visual jumps. For lack of a better way to put it, it just feels like a movie that is working because of its performances and the nature of the true story being told, not because there is anything artistic being done by the production team to elevate the story to another level.

I feel confident that McConaughey and Leto will spend a lot of time in tuxedos in the coming weeks because "Dallas Buyers Club" is one of those award-bait actor's showcases. Many of Meryl Streep's nominations, for instance, come from average films. When the performance of the actor elevates the film to a higher level, a nomination is much more likely. There is no doubt that this film is elevated to another level by these two men. Aside from them, "Dallas Buyers Club" feels like a solid TV movie that would air on HBO.

For as much as "Dallas Buyers Club" is a film meant to help us understand what it would have been like to have HIV/AIDS during a time when no one understood the disease or its victims, I think the film generates a second topic of discussion that is equally challenging and perhaps even more far-reaching, which is the debate over to what extent our governmental, legal and medical systems should allow the terminally ill to control what they put into their bodies. It's a fierce debate that certainly resonates today, and watching the struggles of a man in the '80s, a reminder that the wheels of certain government agencies turn at a snail's pace.

Six By Sondheim (2013)

A-

Stephen Sondheim is one of my heroes. That has to be said right off the bat. The list of artists who have challenged me the most intellectually and moved me the most emotionally is an exclusive one, a personal sort of artistic Mount Rushmore that also includes Orson Welles, Woody Allen and John Irving. 

I don't have the time and space, much less the words, to effectively communicate how inspired I've been by Sondheim's use of language, how moved I've been by his gift for melody, or how threatened I've felt during any attempt to master a performance of one of his songs. As an artist, he's just at the peak of everything I could aspire to be. 

So in the moments during "Six by Sondheim," a new documentary focusing primarily on Sondheim's creative process, when he comes across as somewhat aloof, I remained enamored. I think we tend to forgive true geniuses of their occasional lapses in social graces and strays from humility. After all, they're just operating on an entirely different level. 

I was pleased that Sondheim's longtime collaborator James Lapine took up the task of attempting to piece together something out of four decades of Sondheim interviews to create this film. After all, Lapine understands as well as anyone how Sondheim works and wisely highlights the symbolism of Sondheim's belief that putting a show together is like assembling a puzzle. 

As Sondheim himself has famously said: "Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos." 

Lapine brings order out of this particular chaos by whittling down Sondheim's massive canon to six key songs, which he uses as a loose frame upon which to hang snippets of interviews and stories from Sondheim about everything from how to write a lyric to his career journey to anecdotes about particular collaborators. The songs chosen are perhaps relatively obvious but nonetheless effective. They are: "Something's Coming," "Opening Doors," "Send in the Clowns," "I'm Still Here," "Being Alive" and "Sunday." 

My biggest complaint about "Six by Sondheim" is that it's not long enough for fans like me. Its 86 minutes fly by and leave fans wanting more stories, more insights, more performances. What about "Children Will Listen"? How can you skip "Sweeney Todd"? 

But upon further reflection, what makes "Six by Sondheim" such a great documentary is in Lapine's ability to represent the core foundation of Stephen Sondheim in such a tight and organized manner. He simply grabs for some of the larger pieces of the Sondheim puzzle and uses them to illuminate some of the most vital factors that explain the man's artistry. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe less is more. And in choosing this method, I suspect that even viewers who do not know Sondheim well or don't obsess over him like so many of us theatre geeks do could watch this film and truly feel like they've taken an incredible dive into the nature of creating art. Through Lapine's inspired structure, we experience everything from where the author's personal life enters in to his lyrics to the dreaded (and cliche) which comes first...the lyrics or the music debate. 

To accent the documentary's structure, Lapine inserts nearly complete performances of each of the songs, mixing together vintage footage of original performances (as with "Something's Coming" and "Being Alive") with newly-staged clips shot by other filmmakers (like Todd Haynes' bizzare take on "I'm Still Here," reimagined as song performed by a man to an audience of women - and my least favorite part of this film). For "Send in the Clowns," arguably Sondheim's most famous individual song, Lapine even throws in a mashup of some of the many diverse artists who have covered the song over the past 40 years, an effective way of demonstrating the song's lasting power. 

Looking beyond the documentary film making itself, I find my respect for Stephen Sondheim ever deepening. It's hard for me to dislike a man who calls teaching "the sacred profession" and uses puzzle imagery to explain everything from putting on a show to life itself in a way that no one other than Orson Welles could do in "Citizen Kane." There were some ideas about Sondheim I knew about already from my time spent reading about him and studying him, and still some fresh surprises, particularly in how he uses an idea for a song title to guide his work, or how he approaches songwriting from the position of being an actor, rather than being autobiographical. (In fact, "Opening Doors" is included here because Sondheim says it is his only fully autobiographical song.) 

A lack of knowledge of Stephen Sondheim will likely keep many away from even being aware of the existence of "Six by Sondheim," which is currently airing on HBO and available on demand. And I'm saddened that the film was not shortlisted to compete for the Academy Award, though I don't know whether or not it was submitted. What I do know is that if you are someone who values art and music and ideas in your life - if you're someone like me who cannot go a day without a song or the passion music brings in terms of deepening our plights as human beings - you should seek out "Six by Sondheim" and be inspired by this man's ability to explain the necessity of art in our lives.  

Frozen (2013)

B+

They're calling it the greatest Disney animated musical since "The Lion King." I had to look up that list to see if I agreed. Do you know that Disney and its affiliated studios (like Pixar) have released over 50 feature-length animated films since 1994? Is "Frozen" really THAT good?

I filtered through the list of Disney releases and first eliminated the Pixar films, because most of them were made prior to the studio formally merging with Disney, and because those films are not traditionally-made animated features in that they are digitally produced and the music is incidental, rather than integral to the story in Disney's time-honored musical format. Then, I got rid of the non-musicals, straight-to-video releases and sequels, films made in partnership with other studios, and the amazing Miyazaki films distributed by Disney. And for the record, I just eliminated a half dozen films that are better than "Frozen."

Here's what you're left with: "Pocahontas" (1995), "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" (1996), "Hercules" (1997), "Mulan" (1998), "Tarzan" (1999), "The Emperor's New Groove" (2000), "Brother Bear" (2003), "Home on the Range" (2004), "The Princess and the Frog" (2009), and "Tangled" (2010). 

Some of the best songs from the Disney musical canon were still coming from that '90s output, even if those films were inconsistent when compared to the studio's early '90s renaissance. "Go the Distance," "Reflection," "I'll Make a Man out of You" and most of Phil Collins' Oscar-winning "Tarzan" score are still memorable today. From the list of 2000s films, my favorite until now has to be "Tangled," a surprisingly charming addition to the stack that saw composer Alan Menken back to his fine form and accomplished the as-yet unfinished task of pilfering one of the last remaining princesses in children's literature (Rapunzel) and forever turning her into a Disney creation. 

I'm a huge Disney fan, so I apologize for this extended introduction to "Frozen," which I've apparently repurposed as a sort of history lesson. And so to get on with it, I'll answer my original question. For me, "Frozen" is the second-best Disney musical since "The Lion King," stubborn as I will remain to decrease in any way my devotion to "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," a film I know is not perfect but one that made me weep and feel deeply, a film that met me where I was as a recent college graduate and is admittedly elevated in stature in my mind due as much to circumstance as to quality. 

After that, however, comes "Frozen," a visual feast that manages to be simple and complex at the same time and, though focused on the lives of not one but two princesses, captivate a van full of 8-year-old boys just as easily as girls. And I did the field work to prove that last statement, having taken my son and his friends to see the film as a part of his birthday party, which is also why I apologize for anything I miss in this review because I was frequently focused on them. 

We're far enough into our Disney film history to point out that "Frozen" sticks firmly to the studio's time-tested tropes. It's up to the viewer to decide whether it's good or bad that virtually every plot element, character type and storytelling device is recycled from a previous work. Clearly, Disney is working harder to recapture the magic of "The Little Mermaid" and "Aladdin" than even Michael Jackson did in his efforts to top "Thriller." 

Sometimes the easiest way to explain the plot of a Disney film is to draw references from its time-tested past, so here's a plot summary for the Disney-literate:

The story is loosely based on a classic fairy tale ("Snow White," "Cinderella," "The Little Mermaid," "The Princess and the Frog," "Tangled"), Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen." Anna and Elsa are sisters, toddler best friends ("The Fox and the Hound"),  princesses being raised in a castle in Arendalle, where their father is king ("The Lion King"). The king and queen have growing concerns that one of their daughters, Anna, has the freakish power of freezing anything she touches or even feels anxiety toward. She's like an emo Scandinavian Midas with ice for gold. They decide that it wouldn't be too psychologically damaging to their much more naive and plain daughter Anna if they separate the two girls, like forever ("Cinderella"). There have been a few mishaps, including that one time Elsa damn near killed her sister and some magical trolls had to heal her ("Gnomeo & Juliet"? I'm reaching here...) And besides, you can't be too careful when it comes to keeping your children tucked away from the dangers of the world ("Dumbo," "Bambi," "The Little Mermaid," "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," "Finding Nemo," "Tangled"). Ah, sheltering children via parenting by fear...quite possibly Disney's longest standing tradition.

So Anna grows more and more resentful of her situation, yet never clever enough to understand it. She just wants to build a snowman (like they did in "Beauty and the Beast," and P.S.: Anna is basically Belle). It's a shame Facetime hasn't been invented yet, because they sing lovely duets separated by a huge, locked door (still stuck on "Beauty and the Beast," now with a touch of "Brave"). And Elsa heaves and sighs, locked in her bedroom ("Tangled," "Brave") until the untimely death of her parents ("Bambi," "The Lion King") forces her to assume the thrown as queen of Arendalle. 

Elsa is, like, mad crabby about being queen because she feels she's best left alone (um...Beast in "Beauty and the Beast"?) and plus, her sister is the object of a boy's affections and she's not ("Cinderella"). That boy, Hans, breaks from Disney tradition and skips the climactic pursuit of a princess and proposes in the film's opening reel. Anna accepts because she is naive to the ways of the world and the nature of true love, which she will later discover was in her all along (every Disney movie with a girl in it). Walt Disney's casket flies across the ice (just kidding on that one...). Elsa soon takes off into the snowy mountains to live alone in her self-constructed ice castle, not realizing that she's placed all of Arendalle in a deep freeze. She sings an incredible song about her conflicting contentment/ennui in isolation ("Snow White," "The Little Mermaid" "Pocahontas," "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," "Mulan").

Still confused as to what exactly is up with her sister, Anna sets out on a journey to find her, reason with her, and request some global warming. Along the way, she picks up a dumb but useful companion named Kristoff, his big-hearted sidekick, the reindeer Sven, and a wacky, talking snowman with limited courage named Olaf. Wait...is this "The Wizard of Oz"? While on their journey, Anna comes to understand some things about her sister and her fiance. And to keep us from getting bored, the talking inanimate object sings a hilariously entertaining, showstopping number ("Beauty and the Beast," "Hercules") and the magical creatures made of stone get a nifty song as well ("The Hunchback of Notre Dame"). 

Because this is a Disney movie, the final minutes of the film burst into compassion and love and shit-tons of glitter. But I won't spoil that here because - in all seriousness - there are actually a few surprise twists I didn't see coming. And if you can't tell from this plot summary, there isn't much that you can't see coming. 

Two key factors elevate "Frozen" to near-greatness. The first is that in spite of its adherence to just about every previously-used Disney tactic, the film manages to bring something fresh to the table - genuinely complicated relationships. The naive Anna's ditzy whirlwind of a romance with Hanz does not develop in the typical Disney way, and the relationship between Anna and Elsa is refreshingly far more central to the film's story than any romantic entanglements. 

The other reason why "Frozen" is so special is because its music is a return to the glories of films past. Both "The Princess and the Frog" and "Tangled" had a few good songs apiece, but "Frozen" is filled with memorable moments, thanks to the work of Robert and Kristen Anderson Lopez. For the Broadway illiterate, Robert Lopez wrote the songs for both "Avenue Q" and "The Book of Mormon," two of the most exciting shows of the past decade on the Great White Way. They are also, interestingly enough, two of the most profane and irreverent, but Lopez and his wife capture only the sweetness of his Broadway work here, perfectly marrying it to the Disney style but with some ear-catchingly modern lyrics (like, when's the last time you heard a princess question whether or not her excitement could just be gas?) 

The film follows the classic Disney musical traditions, opening with a choral number and providing everything from the main character's aria of self-conflict to the goofy sidekick's crowd-pleasing highlight to the obligatory love duet. But placed in the wind pipes of Broadway vets like the dazzling Idina Menzel and the now-hot Josh Gad (in addition to the woefully underused Jonathan Groff and the surprisingly good Kristin Bell), the songs combine the very familiar with the slightly fresh in exactly the same manner as the film's story, resulting in a work that, well, just works. "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" is a sincere tear-jerker. "For the First Time in Forever" falls squarely in the tradition of "West Side Story"'s "Something's Coming," that formulaic but successful early-in-the-story song that sets up the conflict. "In Summer" is memorably goofy. And "Let It Go" is a soaring anthem of empowerment. You are almost begging on the inside as you first hear it that, come early March, you will be a witness to Idina Menzel being flown to the rafters of the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles above Jack Nicholson and George Clooney, wearing an epic dress with a train that reaches all the way to the stage from the theatre's ceiling ("Wicked"). 

It's pretty clear that Disney has made it a goal with most of its recent films to evolve the decidedly non-feminist portrayals of its princesses. It's a cause they took up with "Mulan" but really poured their hearts into with "Tangled" and "Brave," and now "Frozen" stands as perhaps its most successful attempt to combine the classic Disney princess sweetness and merchandising potential with a more contemporary view of female empowerment. Those of us with little kids of our own now are, of course, the ones to blame for all of this. Somehow we were the ones to suddenly notice that Disney princesses are shockingly naive and dependent on magic for guidance. We don't want our little girls to have to rely on a kiss to save them! Oh, and "Pocahontas" is mad-racist! 

Now, for as much as I've used my space here to mock "Frozen," please know that I thoroughly enjoyed it, but was also objective enough to understand its flaws, which extend beyond its devotion to stealing bits from every Disney feature that's come before it. There was something disingenuous to me about the film's attempt to be both old-fashioned and fresh at the same time. There were moments when the two princess approach made it decidedly unclear as to where our allegiances should lie. And for as gorgeous as the animation was when it came to landscaping and sidekick creatures, what the hell is going on with Disney's choices in terms of animating people? Can't they refer back to their glory years for visual cues the way they do for everything else? Why are their eyes so big? Why do we want everything to purposefully look so digital? 

What will keep me coming back to "Frozen," though, will be the same thing that brings me back to all of the other Disney films I love: the heartwarming sidekick character and the endlessly singable songs. And, of course, the simple wisdom of a Disney classic, which in this case was actually first communicated by Madonna in her song with the same title as this film: "you're frozen/when your heart's not open." 

12 Years a Slave (2013)

A 

There's a moment in the brutal film "12 Years a Slave" that I can't get out of my head. After defending himself against the harassment of a jealous overseer (played by Paul Dano), an enslaved Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor) has retaliated but ultimately fails and is soon left hanging from a tree branch as the overseer and two companions pull the rope taught. Though Northrup is quick to receive a reprieve from his almost certain death when the overseer is reprimanded for the attempted hanging, Northrup is left to dangle mercilessly from the tree for what feels like an eternity. Director Steve McQueen cuts between close-up shots of his feet, caked in mud and positioned in ballet-like points in an attempt to relieve the pressure, and wide shots of him hanging while slaves carry on about their business behind him. The adult slaves tend to their chores; the young ones play in a field. None concern themselves with the activity in the foreground of the shot. If they had, they'd be hanging, too.

This moment took my breath away. It was so simply executed and so undeniably profound, and the message it communicated was so resonant, painful and direct. I wanted to pause the film and reflect, even though the frame remains on screen for an uncomfortably long amount of time already. But "12 Years a Slave" is as relentless as the life of its main character, a real-life free black man from New York who is tricked into captivity and then sold into slavery in the antebellum South and separated from his family for over a decade.

We want so badly as film-goers to use words like "great" and "enjoyable" interchangeably, but movies like "12 Years a Slave" remind us of the simple folly in that endeavor. Some films, as the learned know, exist to confront us, to make us squirm. And yet while there is almost nothing "enjoyable" about "12 Years a Slave," its "greatness" is present frequently and in many forms.

At the time of its publication in 1855, Solomon Northrup's slave narrative "Twelve Years a Slave" was overshadowed by Harriet Beecher Stowe's fictional narrative, "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Northrup was born free in New York, where he lived with his wife and two children. While his family is away on a trip, Northrup is approached by two circus promoters who offer him a well-paying job to showcase his formidable violin playing skills in a travelling circus. Northrup accepts, figuring the short-term job will give him something to do and bring in some income while his family is away.

When the men arrive in Washington D.C., Northrup is drugged and shackled in a slave pen, then quickly sold into slavery. He quickly learns that his attempts to reason with the men buying and selling slaves will potentially bring more harm upon him than good, and soon decides to withhold the information that he is a free man who is educated and can read. His carpentry skills afford Northrup a lifestyle that is at times a step above that of more unskilled slaves, but he endures unspeakable cruelties nonetheless, cruelties that run the gamut from his own hanging (as already mentioned) to his being forced to whip one of his fellow slaves himself. It is not until Northrup's path crosses with that of an abolitionist from Canada (played in a brief but impactful performance by Brad Pitt) that the wheels are finally put into motion to free him and return him to his family.

Many films have successfully documented aspects of the horrors of American slavery during the 19th Century, but I suspect that "12 Years a Slave" will now be considered the gold standard. Like Steven Spielberg's "Amistad," this film conveys the awful conditions in which the slaves must live, and the brutality with which they are treated. And it not only matches but surpasses the level of violence and hatred illustrated in movies as wide ranging as the miniseries "Roots" to "Django Unchained."

But perhaps what makes "12 Years a Slave" so painful and potent is its overall lack of forced sentimentality. This is what was, period. McQueen tries to downplay the typical film making tricks. Hans Zimmer's score threatens to interfere in spots but is checked in others. Overly flashy camera work from cinematographer Sean Bobbitt is dismissed in favor of emphasizing very simple and shockingly effective frame compositions, such as the previously mentioned hanging scene. McQueen's visuals linger on the screen, often at the expense of the film's momentum (a slight but relevant quibble I had with the film) and always at the expense of the audience's ability to find any level of comfort while viewing. To say I squirmed in my seat is an understatement.

As a director, McQueen continues to hone his craft here, and though I don't know his work well yet, it's clear that one noticeable element - however trivial  it might seem - is that he frequently relies on the nude human form as an integral part of his art. And as he did with his last film, "Shame," he uses nudity explicitly and without any hint of erotic charge. It is clear that he requires his actors to lay themselves bare in every sense of the word, and that he'll ask audiences to receive it, however discomforting.

It's also clear that McQueen understands violence and does not want to see it sentimentalized or downplayed. Yet for as painful as the scenes of violence against the slaves were - and they were really, really bad - I might not have been more affected than in a simple moment where Ejiofor is left to stare directly into the camera, McQueen holding the frame for much longer than the audience can tolerate. Because Ejiofor is so brilliantly understated in his sure-to-be-Oscar-nominated performance, the moment screams at the audience through its deafening silence. "How could you let this happen? To me? To us?" It is pure cinematic conviction. And "12 Years a Slave" elevates itself within its genre by generating its power more from its quiet moments than from its violent ones.

Perhaps the most shocking surprise of "12 Years a Slave" is the diversity of its cast, as McQueen pulls together a group more diverse than any director short of Woody Allen can assemble and, like Allen, draws out spectacular performances from them all without a moment untrue to the film's tone and intention. Of course I was aware of the presence of Michael Fassbender, who starred in "Shame," and is fast becoming the director's muse. Fassbender plays Northrup's second slave owner, and his presence is haunting. But equally effective is Benedict Cumberbatch, always in his element in period work, as the first slave owner. Both are excellent and well-cast.

What I didn't expect, though, was the stellar work in smaller roles by a surprising array of diverse performers. Oscar nominees Brad Pitt, Paul Giamatti and Quvenzhane Wallis leave lasting impressions, as does Sarah Paulson as Fassbender's chilly wife. And yes, that's "Saturday Night Live" star Taran Killam, of all people, in a small and serious role as one of the men who delivers Northrup into slavery. Somehow, McQueen is able to include moments for both legendary dramatic film actress Alfre Woodard and nutball television star Garret Dillahunt (of "Raising Hope").

"12 Years a Slave" is sometimes stiff in its historical presentation, and frequently paced very slowly. In a few moments, its tone goes a little wacky, such as in the kidnapping scene, which feels a little light.

But its acting performances help to elevate the film to greatness. The film has two truly unbelievable performances in the work of Nigerian-born Chiwetel Ejiofor and Lupita Nyong'o as a slave named Patsey who will be forced into service as her white owner's mistress and endure the most savage whipping I have ever witnessed on a movie screen short of the one in "The Last Temptation of Christ." Though both actors have names that are difficult to pronounce, entertainment journalists had better start practicing their names, because both will be everywhere in the coming weeks, I suspect.

As I reflect on the experience of watching "12 Years a Slave," I find myself comparing it to "Gravity," the last film I saw in a theatre and one that I went wild for. I suspect that these two films are the front-runners for this year's Best Picture Oscar, and in most ways, they could not be more different. One friend of mine even commented that the very attempt to draw comparisons between the two is essentially ludicrous. And yet that's what award voters are forced to do, year in and year out.

For me, "Gravity" gets the edge because of its groundbreaking technical work and potent spirituality. Both films physically affected me like few movies I can remember. In both cases, my body was exhausted and tense from the experience of having been a spectator. But I could see myself watching "Gravity" again. I'm not sure how many times I'd want to see "12 Years a Slave." Like Spielberg's "Schindler's List," this is a film that belongs on a shelf as one of the most powerfully rendered cinematic documents of our collective history as a people. It's the kind of movie that belongs in educational curriculums and should be viewed by all.

But "12 Years a Slave" is not an enjoyable movie to watch. Of course, it has no right in the world to be an enjoyable view. Its brilliance is that it justifiably scars the audience, helping us to see just why this whole slavery thing just doesn't go away, even after all of these years since it was abolished. You watch "12 Years a Slave," and you get it, no matter whether or not you got it before. No matter what color you are. And for that alone, you know you've witnessed a blustering and blunt masterpiece of a movie.

Room 237 (2012/13)

B

For 13 years now, I have been teaching a film studies course at one of the high schools in my town. and a comment I've made to students during that time that has been repeated frequently enough so as to have developed into a mantra, which is that "most of you are passive viewers of film. You treat them like carnival rides or things that just happen to you or wash over you, and then they are done. When you leave this class, you are going to be active viewers of film. Whether you like a movie or not, you're going to learn to ask and answer the question 'why?'"

The biggest compliment I feel I've ever been paid as a film teacher is when a student returns to visit years later and says, "Mr. Carlson, you ruined the way I watch movies." I take great pride in teaching high school kids to think critically about how film makers control the way we as an audience think and feel by manipulating what we call the "elements of composition," which include camera work, lighting, editing and sound, among other aspects.

So for me to say that Rodney Ascher's documentary "Room 237" is almost too much for even me to handle is telling.

I had been looking forward to seeing this film for a long time, excited to watch a feature-length dissection of Stanley Kubrick's classic horror film, "The Shining," a movie I have taught at least 20 times by now. And I can't tell you how many times throughout the movie's 102 minute running time I had one of the following rotating reactions:
1. "I can't believe I didn't notice that! I've seen the movie 30 times! I feel so stupid!"
2. "Whoa. Mind blown with the Nabokov/Hitler/"Jesus Christ Superstar"/T.S. Eliot/insert reference here reference."
3. Echoing the response I often get from my students when I dissect a film in class: "Okay, that's a little bit insane. You're trying a little bit too hard now."

Say what you want about "Room 237," unless you want to say that it isn't interesting. Too much? Yes. Ridiculous? Frequently. Intellect-expanding? Oh, yes. But damn, this is fascinating stuff. The documentary is really more of a video diary of sorts, assembling five film geeks (and there's no phrase that's more appropriate here) theorizing about what they have found to be the true and typically deeply hidden meaning of "The Shining."

The theorists range from college professors to journalists, and just as each theory grows more ridiculous than the last, each fan of the film, through voiceover, stakes his or her claim (mostly his, of course...film geeks, remember?) by talking over slowly forwarded images from the film and bringing in historical references and outside sources. Is it possible, for example, that the Calumet baking soda can on a kitchen pantry shelf behind Halloran is a reference to Native Americans? The argument is that Kubrick was so meticulous about every single thing that went into every frame of his films that he would have been conscious of how the label was facing. Frankly, I'm willing to buy that.

How, then, can I explain what appear to be continuity errors regarding the color of Jack Torrence's typewriter changing and a chair against the wall in those scenes appearing and disappearing? After getting over my shock in having those errors proved to me - because in years of watching the film, I noticed neither - I was challenged with trying to accept that Kubrick, as meticulous as I've mentioned, could have either missed those mistakes or allowed them to happen. Which means they had to be intentional. And if so, why? Mind, blown.

I thought the giddy height of over-analysis was occurring when a segment of the film brought in the use of an animated map to prove how the floor plan of the Overlook Hotel contained implausibilities, like a window in the office that couldn't possibly have a view of the outdoors. But then came the most deliriously ridiculous idea of all, when near the end of the film, someone decided to loop the film so that we'd watch from the opening frame forward and from the closing frame in reverse simultaneously. No doubt the very suggestion arrived in someone's marijuana-induced haze, likely brought to you from the same guys who first decided to set the needle on Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" at the start of "The Wizard of Oz" to watch what happens. And I'll be damned if -despite the insanity of the very thought of it - I wasn't captivated by what I was seeing. I had dry mouth, in fact, from my mouth being agape for so long.

"The Shining" was a veiled commentary about the atrocities of the Holocaust. "The Shining" was a statement about the genocide of Native Americans. "The Shining" was simply filled with deeply buried inside jokes because a genius film maker was bored. All of these theories and more are put forth in "Room 237," a reference, of course, to the infamous room to which the supernaturally gifted child Danny Torrence is eventually led and in which Jack has an encounter with a mysterious woman.

Oh, and that room is a metaphor for the Apollo moon landing, which, by the way, Kubrick was hired to fake for the government, the film his way of confessing to what he had pulled off.

Are you interested yet?

If you love movies, you have to allow yourself the opportunity to take in "Room 237." Because while the film is obviously a dissection of an undeniably great film, it's even more a love letter to loving movies themselves. Sure, you will shake your head and most certainly laugh at the zealous commitment of a chosen few who clearly seem to have too much free time on their hands. And you will dismiss much of what you hear as bunk. But I am certain you will also pick up a detail or two that you are wiling to believe.

Best of all, you will be reminded that the intentions of the artist are only important at the moment in which the art is created, because all that matters after that is the history and perspective we bring to our consumption of that art. What a wondrous thing our senses are; all of them vital to our being and each one purely subjective. Yes, even our sense of sight. "Room 237" serves as a reminder that we can look at the same thing but see things completely differently. It's one of the reasons why I love film so much and hope to develop in students a fire for seeing for themselves instead of just waiting for me to force an interpretation on them.

I don't see how I can get away with NOT showing "Room 237" from now on after I teach "The Shining" in my film class. The film is the ultimate in film criticism, and the best example I can think of to support what I tell my students almost every day, which is that everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, but you have to be able to provide evidence to support that opinion if you want to be respected. Even with evidence, much of "Room 237" is outrageous. But if nothing else, showing the film to my students is going to make me look a lot less crazy.

Bridegroom (2013)

B+

This isn't going to be a conventional film review.

I'm not in a place where I feel like I want to dwell on anything about the documentary "Bridegroom" that is negative, so I'll start by getting my criticisms out of the way first.

For a documentary film, this love story of a young gay couple and how one man copes with the unexpected loss of his partner and is subsequently denied the right to attend his funeral is almost absolute in its one-sidedness, a definite no-no in my book for a documentary film.

...but that's because the makers of the film reached out to the family of the late Tom Bridegroom and they refused to participate, shutting us out of the opportunity to understand their perspective, whether or not we wanted to, just like they shut out their son's partner.

I could argue that the film is shockingly naive and simple in its depiction of a relationship being so free of conflict and tense, honest negotiations that it borders on the airbrushed depictions in romantic comedies. Because every relationship has its challenges, and even a rom-com has an obligatory fight scene.

...but then, this is a relationship between two gay men, so the challenge with the relationship is so inherently external that it's no wonder that these two men forged such an internal cohesiveness. Why should they fight inside their home when they could open their front door and witness the fight coming to them?

And certainly, I could make a case for the fact that television writer Linda Bloodworth-Thomason ("Evening Shade," "Designing Women") is not able to accomplish much in the way of sophistication in terms of how she presents the story told in this film.

...but this film is aiming for your heart, not your head. For the time of rationalizing is over, and the film's message of love being louder than any other external or internal forces is its ultimate goal. And there's also the fact that this film exists in the first place because of the generosity of private citizens who thought it deserved to be more than just a 10-minute YouTube video.

I managed to see "Bridegroom" without ever having seen the viral video posted on YouTube by the film's surviving subject, Shane Bitney Crone, called "It Could Happen To You." While writing this review, I finally checked out that video (which I've linked here) and discovered that over four million people had already viewed it. In some respects, the 10-minute video posting by Crone has even more impact than the film itself, as the documentary expands on what is tightly and powerfully presented in a much shorter, more compressed clip. Clearly the video had a powerful impact, because over six thousand people donated money to a Kickstarter fund used to finance the full-length documentary film.

The feature-length documentary, like the original YouTube clip, tells the story of two young men. Shane Bitney Crone grows up in rural Montana, which is not a place to be gay. And so, in spite of support from his family, Shane grows up to be passive and reclusive, exhausted by the daily hardships he faces. He escapes to Los Angeles as soon as he graduates, and is eventually introduced to Tom Bridegroom, who would become his domestic partner, co-home owner, and co-business owner for six years.

Bridegroom shared Crone's small-town, not-so-gay-friendly upbringing, having been raised in Indiana and then attending a military academy before college. But unlike Shane, Tom is unabashedly confident and magnetically attracts people toward him, the center of attention where Shane strives to be anything but. And the biggest contrast between the two men is the one that delivers the story's deepest pain. Tom's family does not support his lifestyle and not only will not accept his partner but accuses Shane of corrupting their son. And when at the age of 29 Tom dies in an accidental four-story fall from a rooftop while taking photographs of a friend, his family quickly and methodically blocks Shane out from everything from the funeral arrangements to even being mentioned at the memorial service at all. And because marriage is not yet legal in California, Shane doesn't even have the right to see Tom's body at the hospital. Nor does he have the right to stop Tom's mother from taking things from their house. Nor does he have the right to fight the family's request that he stay away from the funeral, or the leverage to report the threat of violence against his own life if he should attempt to attend.

In light of how the story turned out, "Bridegroom" is completely one-sided, with interviews of every member of Shane's immediate family and video footage of his six years spent with Tom. And while the film is deeply sad, Crone and Bloodworth-Thomason manage to steer it clear from being so heavily drenched in ethos that it neglects logos. Which is a fancy way for saying that it is just emotional enough to make any sane viewer realize that something is wrong with this world.

The time for a film like "Bridegroom" is most certainly now. Fourteen states have legalized gay marriage, while five additional states offer some form of civil union privileges.

I happen to live in one of those five states with civil union privileges, Illinois, one of 35 states in which gay marriage is banned by either constitutional amendment, state law, or both. Just a few months ago, Illinois came rather close to changing that fact, but ultimately, failed. And I was struck by one interviewee in "Bridegroom" who spoke about how it's no human being's wish when he or she is little to grow up and be in a domestic partnership. We dream of marrying.

When I got married in 1997, I asked a gay man to stand next to me at the altar as my best man. I was fully comfortable in that decision because he was my oldest, dearest and closest friend. But it is with some shame that I admit that the thought crossed my mind on numerous occasions that if the situation was reversed and I was asked to be his best man, I wouldn't know if I could do it. This is not the forum for a religious debate, but I spent many years rationalizing, and what I had decided was that I supported my friend being gay, and I supported his relationships, and I even supported the rights of gay couples to have the same legal guarantees that straight couples have. In fact, I found anything less than that civic equality to be downright senseless. "Bridegroom," in fact, confirms my worst fears of how a world without those rights is daily denying loving, decent people from their rights.

But "marriage" was, to me, was purely a church thing. And I just didn't see any scriptural evidence to support the concept that a marriage was designed to be anything other than between a man and a woman. To be clear, I have never, ever been a homophobe. I have never been unsupportive of people being who they are. I have never bought into the notion that being gay is something you can choose or wish away. I have loved and cherished and supported my gay friends. I've had more fun in gay bars than in straight bars and I've matched my gay friends in quoting movie lines from "Soapdish" and "Steel Magnolias." And I sobbed so heavily the first time I saw "Brokeback Mountain" that I thought I was going to crack in half.

Yet for whatever reason, I felt strongly that being a couple was a secular thing and being married was only an institution of the church. 

Times have changed since then. A few conservatives are coming around to discover, I believe, that support of gay marriage might just be in line with Republican values, not in opposition to it. If the Republican party is the party of less government interference (though that is surely debatable today), then GOP supporters like Clint Eastwood certainly speak for what I believe is fast becoming the new normal when he said, in 2011, that we should "give everybody the chance to have the life they want. Let's spend a little more time leaving everybody else alone." And since I never felt that the union of a gay couple was ever any threat to my own marriage, it's time for me to express my agreement with Eastwood's statement. I should probably go even further than that, but it's a start.

I still don't see any scriptural evidence to support that marriage can be between two people of the same sex. I also cannot find anything in scripture to support that Jesus was anti-anyone. And I have always been raised to believe that Jesus was the perfect earthy embodiment and manifestation of the purest form of love itself. 

Marriage IS a sacrament of the church. But it's not like I never believed that there weren't gay people who went to church and believed the same things that I do. So this is me saying that I still don't have it all figured out, but I have figured out that I am finished with any scenario that provides a fork in the road where heterosexuals go in one direction and homosexuals must go down the other. And regardless of any lingering questions I might have, that includes marriage.

Please understand that "Bridegroom" was not some sort of conversion experience for me. I'm merely using it as an opportunity to put some cards on the table that I've kept close to the vest for too long because I know some very wonderful and amazing people who deserve at least that from me. "Bridegroom" is a blessing to viewers who are skeptical about whether or not true love can come to everyone, and Shane Bitney Crone and Tom Bridegroom were an inspirational couple. And maybe, if I'm very lucky and deemed worthy enough, I will one day be invited as a guest to a wedding here in Illinois to witness one of my gay friends accomplish what Shane and Tom were robbed of.

I think I'm prepared to accept the fact that my review of this film is going to upset some of my friends and even some of my family. And to those of you I might be offending, let me be clear that I don't love you any less. But I'll bet you haven't watched "Bridegroom."

I have. Love is louder.

Gravity (2013)

A+

In the opening shot of "Gravity" - an opening shot that has already begun the process of being immortalized for its use of an unbroken, 13-minute-long tracking sequence - we are given a few items as text on the screen to remind us that space is as dangerous as it is mysterious and awe-inspiring and beautiful. The closing line in that sequence of text, which reminds us of things we no doubt learned once in school, (such as the lack of oxygen and the inability for sound to travel), is this: "Life in space is impossible." 

Indeed it is. And perhaps a large chunk of what makes "Gravity" such a masterful film is its subtext, which suggests that life back on Earth can be pretty impossible as well. 

In his review of the film on RogerEbert.com, critic Matt Zoller Seitz writes that "Gravity" is "about that moment when you suffered misfortune that seemed unendurable and believed all hope was lost and that you might as well curl up and die, and then you didn't." I'm not sure I am capable of crafting a better line to summarize this must-see cinematic experience. And I'm struggling between my need to talk about every aspect of this movie with anyone who will listen and my need to say as little as possible so that the film can be fully experienced as it should be.

As a movie-going experience, "Gravity" is as big as movies get. After all, it stars George Clooney and Sandra Bullock, two of the most well-liked and dependable stars in Hollywood today. And its director, Alfonso Cuaron, has assembled a team that has - without hyperbole - changed the game of how films are made in a way that no film has managed since "Avatar." It is also, of course, set in space. 

But it's the film's contrasting sparseness and claustrophobic moments that stand out. When the film's two surviving astronauts (Clooney and Bullock) survive a shocking and sudden attack of space debris that eliminates their shuttle and their fellow astronauts, the veteran Matt Kowalski (a confident, charming Clooney) relies as much on the power of his soothing voice and limp, homespun storytelling as he does on his level of ability as an astronaut to stabilize rookie Ryan Stone (Bullock, who is physically and mentally spiraling out of control through the void) in order to latch a strap to her. That simple tether is literally responsible for the only human connection afforded either of them in this desperate moment: one strap and two clips and virtually nothing else.

Umbilical imagery is a recurring visual motif in "Gravity," culminating in a stunning moment of visual poetry in which Bullock floats, weightless and centered, within a rounded open space in one of the shuttles, her space suit removed and her knees drawn in to a fetal position. The moment is surprisingly physically brave; though she is clothed, her clothing is minimal and it's as if she is naked because on an emotional level, she certainly is. Time and again, the astronaut must be grab hold of something or be attached to something if he/she is to have any chance of surviving.

Looking back on my viewing experience, there are three reasons why "Gravity" affected me so deeply, and I want to take a second to briefly explore those areas:

1. The film is deeply spiritual
"What do you like best about space?" Kowalski asks Stone at one point. Her response? "The silence." Given the simplicity of the film's plot and the likelihood that viewers will know much of the film's plot points going in, Cuaron and his team have to provide other reasons for an audience to have this particular cinematic experience. All three of the reasons I'm mentioning here are good enough, but this one meant the most to me.

Stone, on her first space mission, is clearly escaping something back home: personal failure and loss. Perhaps in some way, space travel is a risk that can only be taken by those who are in a place mentally where they're willing to gamble with their very existence, and Stone is. Like space itself, she's gone cold, and she appreciates the stark contrast of the mundane maintenance tasks she is being asked to perform against the celestial and majestic backdrop of space. For a few moments anyway, she appears to be more content with looking down on Earth than being on its soil, though her feelings on this obviously evolve.

Through the film's sequence of catastrophic events, Stone eventually undertakes a hero's journey that felt a lot like a reverse evolution take on rebirth, documenting her harrowing journey from essentially death back to - if she's successful - rising out of the mud of the ocean's shore. And in the film's stunning emotional centerpiece, Stone must confront her past as it applies to her present situation while simultaneously confronting the language barriers of the foreign aircraft she is attempting to pilot and the voices being transmitted into the shuttle, which are not of her language. Only God Himself could lead her out such a convergence of desperation, and her full awareness of this fact is what, perhaps, frustrates Stone most of all, forcing her to have a spiritual breakthrough before she can ever attempt a literal one through the earth's atmosphere.

2. The actual construction of the film is groundbreaking movie making
I rarely speak highly of the use of 3-D and am certain that I can count on one hand the number of times I felt it was truly effective. "Avatar" and "Hugo" come to mind as obvious leaps forward in the use of the technology, but before "Gravity," I never considered 3-D to be truly essential to the film viewing experience.

Cuaron is so effective with his use of 3-D that James Cameron is thanked in the film's closing credits, a move that, in retrospect, feels like a race car driver waving as he blows past the driver in the pole position.  Trust me when I tell you that my biggest disappointment with "Gravity" will be when I rewatch the film at home one day without the benefit of 3-D. If ever a film begged to be seen in a movie theatre, this is it. In fact, go one better and spring for the IMAX experience as well. Not many films are with the inflated price of the ticket, but this one is. The 3-D gives a stunning depth to space itself, which until now could only be represented as a compressed, dark rectangle of nothing but now feels like a true chasm. It is this very depth and dimension of space itself that makes the loneliness even lonelier, the distance even greater, and the awesomeness of space infinitely more majestic.

Some complain that the use of 3-D glasses gives them headaches and that wearing the glasses dulls the colors on the screen. I certainly refer to these two complaints when eschewing the format for the traditional 2-D experience. Fortunately, "Gravity" is set in space, and its natural darkness lends itself nicely, I think, to a 3-D viewing experience where the loss of brightness isn't a factor. And while I did hear of some filmgoers struggling with the images and headaches, I was not one of them, and that has definitely been a problem for me in the past.

Which leads to the second aspect of technical brilliance regarding "Gravity," and that is the mind-blowing camera work. If anything might make you a little woozy, it will be the perpetually floating camera, spinning lazily without rest and then, when circumstances call for it, spinning wildly as if you were viewing things from some sort of carnival ride. (I'll say more about this in my next point.)

Because Cuaron has worked with his team to break new ground in cinematography, the audience gets an experience that truly feels like space. I don't claim to know the details of how they accomplished what they did, but I will say it today that anything short of an Oscar for cinematography would be slap in the face to the unbelievable sights they created here. I walked in to "Gravity" already stunned by Cuaron's ability to stage an extended tracking shot sequence; he virtually ripped the crown away from Scorsese with his last film, "Children of Men." In retrospect, that feels like it was practice. How could this film not have been filmed in space itself? How can a camera travel in an unbroken shot through the glass of a space suit helmet and then pass back out again? I have not been so mystified, thrilled and baffled by cinematography since "Citizen Kane."

3. The film stirred in me a visceral, physical reaction
Take this as a compliment when I say that "Gravity" is almost unbearable to watch. I mean this from a physical standpoint. As I mentioned before, the camera work generates a constant, slow tumbling sensation, and though you get used to it, there are times when you're reaching for your popcorn bag to use it as a barf bag when that motion picks up and when chaotic interferences cause tumbling to turn into uncontrollable spinning, such as near the film's beginning when Clooney's character must attempt to stabilize a wildly flipping Bullock.

I have rarely felt such panic sitting in a movie theatre. My resting position involved my arms tightly folded across my chest, and if I wasn't gripping my sides, I was gripping the arm rests as if on Space Mountain rather than at a movie. When Bullock's character struggled to draw substantial breaths, I followed suit. When she felt extreme hot and cold temperatures out in space or attempting to reenter the earth's atmosphere, I swear I felt them, too. By the time the film ended, I had slammed my spine into the back of my seat and pressed my back into my chair, unable to move as the credits rolled. How often can you say "I was on the edge of your seat" about a movie and mean it, literally? It was difficult for me to react to the film as if I had not myself just been in space and experienced reentry so that I might return to my car to drive home.

"Gravity" is the kind of film that many might never watch a second time because it is that exhausting and intense. Over the years, I've assembled such a list of films, my "one and done" list. Every movie on that list is a film that was so powerful and full of impact but also so emotionally exhausting that I question my ability to re-experience it. Without question, "Gravity" belongs on such a list, though in the days that have passed since I've seen it, I almost can't imagine not allowing myself to return to the film upon home release to further consider its brilliance. From the acting performances to every last technical detail, it's a stunner. Even the one scene in the film that originally felt like a sore misstep (and I don't want to name it here) feels purposeful upon further reflection. 

How could a movie look so weightless and feel so full of mass? "Gravity," indeed.

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2 (2013)

D-

Call it "Cloudy Animated Feature With a Chance of Anorexia."

There's a standard rule in comedy that a good joke can be used three times, but no more. The repetition of the joke actually heightens the comic effect, but you can have too much of a good thing, hence the rule of three.

In "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2," the repeated joke involves the use of the word "leak," as in "there's a leak in this boat," followed by a cutaway shot to a shrieking, personified vegetable whose species shares that word for a name. And yes, people, this is the film's best joke, which is saying something... something that I'll get into soon enough.

By the second appearance of this screaming member of the Allium genus, I was able to let down my guard - my lifelong confusion over the difference between a leek and a scallion notwithstanding - and experience a rare laugh. And I'm sure by now that you're wondering if the third use of the joke was even more satisfyingly comedic. Sadly, however, I can't remember enough to tell you about it, as by this point I had experienced a near-full mental blackout, a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, surrounded as I was by candy-munching toddlers hanging on the every word of their favorite foods come to life. I exaggerate little when I say that my viewing strategy most closely mimicked a computer rebooting into safe mode. That's how close I was to losing brain cells.

The original film, 2009's "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs," was itself based on an imaginative and charming children's picture book dating all the way back to 1978. The conflict of the book, as extrapolated upon by the original film with rail-jumping embellishment, is that a young inventor sees the good in inventing a machine that can produce food. The production of the food, however, is tied to weather systems, thus making the good he sees in his god-playing insanity on par with that of another famous scientist by the name of Victor Frankenstein. Eventually, giant mutant foods rain down from the heavens, placing into peril the citizens of Swallow Falls. (Hey, all kids films have built-in jokes for adults...is that a porn name?) I'll say it again, kids...there might just be such a thing as too much of a good thing.

The Frankenstein reference is actually a good point of contact for beginning to grapple with the many levels of psychological dysfunction concocted as this sequel, for "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2" is a cross between the aforementioned Mary Shelley story, the Christian animated series Veggie Tales (if those much less creepy animated edibles had been binge-watching "Breaking Bad"), and that animated conga line of concessions snacks that used to play prior to the previews at drive-in movies 30 years ago. 

Back for more is young Flint Lockwood, unrecognizably voiced by new "Saturday Night Live" alum, Bill Hader. Lockwood, whose 1940s Hollywood star-sounding name betrays his geeky existence, learns that his food machine has not been completely destroyed as he had once assumed. I would print the name of the machine here, but I'm not going to waste my time. Suffice it to say that it involves a vowel-free acronym, the pronunciation of which generates a joke in the film that most definitely violates the rule of three mentioned at the beginning of this review. If I let my dog type this next paragraph, whatever she would type would be exactly the name of this machine.

Enter into the picture the nefarious Chester V (voiced by fellow SNL alum Will Forte in the film's easiest to detect vocal performance). Chester V is in search of Lockwood's machine. He's also in search of a full last name and a more fully formed lower torso, but maybe that will be explored in part three. Chester V, with his prominent, V-shaped, white goatee and serpentine movements that most closely resemble a twerking earthworm, works as an inventor with a company called the LIVE Corp Company. (How clever are you, people? Did you not just see "Elysium"?) Chester has also been Flint's role model since boyhood, and uses this fact to exploit Flint in an attempt to gain control of Flint's still-in-existence machine, so he can use it to sorry-this-is-where-I-blacked-out-and-I-don't-know-what-he-wanted-it-for.

As Flint is manipulated by Chester, members of his inner-circle begin to bemoan the fact that "he's changed." This includes former bully-turned-lobotomized-poster-boy-for-obesity Brent McHale (Andy Samberg), almost love interest and weather girl (but not the cool kind that sings of raining men) Sam Sparks (Anna Faris) and town law enforcement and stereotypical token black character, Earl Devereaux (Terry Crews, replacing the original film's Mr. T. Yes...even Mr. T, who must surely be hard up for work, passed on this script.) There is also Flint's pet monkey Steve, inexplicably credited to Neil Patrick Harris, who gets his own subplot in a conflict established with rival primate, Chester V's own sidekick, Barb (voiced by Kristen Schaal, though I swore it was Sarah Silverman). Barb is an ape, apparently, though the film's animation department took a dump when it comes to creating something that even remotely resembles such an animal...surprising, considering how convincingly they turn two tacos into a crocodile.

I still haven't mentioned the central twist in the sequel's conflict, the new premise that all of the mutant food blanketing Swallow Falls (heh heh...) has now somehow come to life and has developed emotions and human characteristics, including the most disturbing revelation of all in light of Flint's mission to finally destroy his machine, which is the understanding that the foods are members of loving family units. And so, a menacing, aircraft carrier-sized cheeseburger with french fry legs is merely seeking to protect its young and get its belly rubbed, and a family of marshmallows frolic like limbless albino meerkats. What's a compassionate guy to do?

Before long, Flint's father goes on a fishing expedition with a gang of dill pickles in a scene reminiscent of the one in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" where McMurphy hijacks a school bus and takes his fellow psych ward inmates on a life adventure. Okay, there's not really that much of a resemblance. I'm trying here. And is it just me or was it ironic that the pickles were fishing for a food source that actually already has eyes and a mouth?

Perhaps in the biggest they-must-have-been-on-drugs-when-they-made-this moment of all, Flint and his crew encounter a pumpkin-sized strawberry with large, blinking eyes and a Furbee's coo. I am certain that kids all over America today are begging their parents to buy them a giant freaking plush strawberry, though I did not find the thing as cute as everyone else. In fact, I studied the thing with tense caution, certain that, like a fruity Mogwai, the berry would make contact with water, reveal its razor-sharp teeth and destroy everyone in a Jamba Juice-sponsored deus ex machina. The film had me that on edge...I was anticipating a berry Gizmo.

It's possible that you're wondering why an animated children's film would leave me so disillusioned and disturbed, but I can answer that simply, as I made numerous attempts to rationally debate with my fellow adults in attendance just what, pray tell, a guy's got to eat in this world. Worse still, what options will us parents have for our kids, now that they will surely visualize their produce as having feelings. I'd argue that "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2" is a thinly-veiled propaganda piece on behalf of PETA and vegetarianism, were it not for the fact that the preponderance of cuddly and crazy foodstuffs in the film skews vegan. In an act of reverse psychology, shouldn't we befriend the meat?

So if the film doesn't espouse vegetarianism, then what? Anorexia? That's the best I can muster. Don't eat ANYTHING. It has feelings...and family. You sick, uncaring bastard with your basic Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

For the record, the kids I witnessed, including my own, were delighted by "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2." And I will admit that I walked in to the theatre braced and ready to be robbed blind of 95 minutes of my life, jokingly referring to the film as "Cloudy With No Chance of This Being a Good Movie" before the first "pear-ot" (get it?!) took flight. In the end, the kids got what they wanted, as evidenced by the film's $35 million-at-the-box-office opening weekend, and I got what I expected, which is, um, not much, unless you include an experience that I can only begin to describe as a bad drug trip without the drugs. Not that I know anything about drugs. I don't take them, because I'm sure they have feelings. And parents. Maybe this film's makers picked the wrong ingestible items to venerate.

Blue Jasmine (2013)

A+

How much sympathy can one of us regular folks have for the stresses that befall a high-society woman who abandoned the completion of a college degree upon discovering that she could instead marry a dashing business investor with mysteriously incalculable wealth? How bad can we feel for her when she's placed in a situation where her skill at spending her husband's money on Paris runway fashion or lavish cocktail parties serves her no benefit? What if she finds out that her whole life was built on lie after lie - that her wealth is pure fiction and her marriage as well?

This is the challenge facing viewers of Woody Allen's "Blue Jasmine," a mostly dramatic film from arguably the living master of cinematic comedy. It's no secret that Allen is my favorite director, and I've been known to say that "a bad Woody Allen film is usually better than a good film by somebody else." And while I was as impressed as I expected I'd be by the lead performance of sure-to-be-Oscar-frontrunner Cate Blanchett in the film's title role, I found myself wrestling with a tough thing. While blown away by Blanchett's profound mastery of her craft in her every printed frame as Jasmine French, I could not bring myself around to feeling sorry for what was happening to her at all. And I have this thing about needing to empathize with, if not like, the main character of a story.

But then, it happened. And I should have trusted Woody. Because in one breathtaking and intense scene, my feelings for her changed, and I carried a newly-revealed sympathy for her through to the end of the film. Once this switch flipped for me, I noticed numerous other places where an unsympathetic audience member could finally come aboard in support of this character. And therein lies just one of the many acts of genius on display in "Blue Jasmine," a film that plays on screen like an expertly crafted short story, a firmly structured work of classic literature based on a contemporary theme delivered by a master craftsman at the top of his game.

"Blue Jasmine" is a wonder of a movie, lean and deliberate, and as intellectually affecting to me as it might be emotionally affecting to the person sitting next to me. And it joins Allen's 2005 film "Match Point" (coincidentally, also a drama) and 2011's Best Picture-nominated "Midnight in Paris" (a late career return to form in the romantic comedy mold Allen has done so well for decades) as his third masterpiece of this century.

Alternating between the New York of her past and San Francisco of her present, "Blue Jasmine" tells the story of a woman (Blanchett) who has already come unraveled in the wake of the undoing of her husband Hal, played flawlessly and with a soulless smile by Alec Baldwin. Allen rarely specifically references contemporary world events, which is probably what gives so many of his movies a timeless quality, and this can also be his downfall when he perpetuates his own style at the expense of expanding his palate, as he is sometimes wont to do. But here, there is little question that Baldwin's Hal is a fictionalized Bernie Madoff, and Blanchett's Jasmine could easily appear on a Real Housewives reality television program, though with Allen's pedigree, the closer reference point and obvious inspiration for Jasmine is Blanche DuBois, from Tennessee Williams' "A Streetcar Named Desire." For fans of "Streetcar," in fact, the "Blue Jasmine" screenplay includes multiple intersection points, from the presence of not one but two Stanley-esque characters to references as finely detailed as line lifts, certainly candy for any audience member with the background to grab the homages.

Left with little more than her Louis Vuitton luggage and designer wardrobe, Jasmine (whose real name is Jeanette but she's changed it herself - one early attempt of many she makes to recreate herself) finds herself on the doorstep of her sister Ginger's apartment in San Francisco. She has no one else to turn to after her husband is imprisoned for his illegal investment and banking deals and her son walks out on both of them in search of a normalcy he can't quite visualize. Her life as she knew it was gone, and she goes on and on about how the government left her with nothing.

Perhaps somewhat predictably, Ginger (Sally Hawkins) is everything Jasmine is not, though Allen is smart enough to recognize this time-worn device and writes a character twist into the script that justifies it completely. Not surprisingly, Jasmine struggles to cope with her new surroundings. Ginger lives in a modest flat furnished bohemian-style with mismatched tchotchkes, and her two young sons always seem to be dismantling it when they're not with their father, Ginger's ex-husband Augie (in the film's most shocking performance because he's played - brilliantly - by the long-faded comedian Andrew Dice Clay). Jasmine never liked Augie. She turns her nose on Ginger's living as a grocery store clerk. She lacks connection with her nephews. And she's even more unnerved by the arrival on the scene of Ginger's new man, Chili (Bobby Cannavale).

The largest wedge between the sisters has to do with Jasmine's having encouraged Ginger and her then-husband Augie to trust Hal to invest lottery winnings for them instead of allowing Augie to open his own business. Of course, Ginger and Augie lost everything, too. Though Jasmine is quick to outwardly deflect blame and shrug off her involvement in the dismantling of her sister's one opportunity for a better life, we know from the beginning that the guilt is not only real, but cripplingly burdensome. We know this because Jasmine is frequently seen talking to walls, recreating conversations to herself, and popping prescription anti-anxiety and anti-psychotic medication like M&Ms, always washing them down with Stoli. In this way, "Blue Jasmine" also calls to mind the 2009 Pulitzer Prize-winning Broadway musical "Next To Normal," as both works take an in-depth look at the impact of profound loss and the far from exact science of the pharmaceutical treatment of a grief-induced nervous breakdown.

Jasmine's mental instability is, of course, what provides Blanchett with the material to create one of the most unbelievable acting performances I've seen in a few years. Her work almost defies criticism and surely rests in a class with Daniel Day Lewis' work as President Lincoln. I don't see how she can't possibly be the front runner for the Best Actress Oscar, and it's not just because the work is showy. It's because Blanchett so completely immerses herself in Jasmine's tumult, vapidity and cloudiness that the honesty of her work rings louder still in Jasmine's more quiet moments. Her performance is brilliant. There's no other way to say it. And if there's any justice, Allen will find that he's coached his first lead actress to an Oscar since Diane Keaton in "Annie Hall," almost 40 years ago.

The film's flashback structure was, for me, part of its great success, as it was advantageous for the audience to reach back to find clarity and context for things happening to Jasmine in the present, rather than watch a straight-linear deterioration. Symbolically, the juxtapositions emphasized the way Jasmine's high society life became her albatross, as she married Hal prior to completing a college degree and never learned skills aside from shopping, decorating, fundraising and entertaining, none of which can provide her with a living now. By structuring the film so that moments in Jasmine's present call to mind moments from her extravagant past, Allen and his production team give viewers some palpable contrasts, their proximity solidifying one's understanding of just how far she's fallen.

Allen's writing here ranks with his very best screenplays, and his direction is not only confident, but in places, surprisingly fresh. I quickly noticed that he did not treat the two cities in which "Blue Jasmine" was filmed as characters in the story in the way that he has in his recent European-set travelogue films. Instead, they are backgrounds that provide depth and insight to the main character's struggles, and Allen wisely cedes focus to Blanchett in what is likely the greatest star vehicle of her career, if not the most prominent star-led film Allen's ever made, given his proclivity toward ensemble pieces. Comedy is also far more circumstantial here than it is the product of a typical line of Allen-penned wit, though a few of those surface, too. And there's far less comedy to be had, barring that of schadenfreude.

There's little I can find wrong with this movie. I read a review from Brad Brevet, my favorite online film critic, in which he stated that "Blue Jasmine" suffered because some of its subplots seemed superfluous. And while I frequently agree with Brevet and respect him for his thorough and thought-provoking analyses, I couldn't be more in disagreement with him on this one. One of the subplots in question involves an altercation Jasmine has with a dentist (Michael Stuhlbarg) with whom she accepts her first menial employment, and without saying too much, this subplot contains the very scene that allowed me to finally sympathize with Jasmine.

Another involves Ginger's flirtations with a character played by the comedian Louis C.K., a sequence of events which challenges Ginger's relationship with Chili. Brevet said that the effect this subplot had on the film was "little to nothing." For me, it reinforced the deepest emotional connections I had with the film as a whole with regards to the nature of from where true happiness derives. Without it, this movie could have been reduced to little more than an acting showcase for Blanchett. With these scenes, "Blue Jasmine" is so much more than a movie about a rich bitch having a crack-up because she can't cope with how the 99 percent live after her well runs dry. That is, to some extent, how I felt after watching the otherwise engrossing documentary "The Queen of Versailles" last year - another "Green Acres"-like story of the falling rich dealing with our average lives and where their remaining jewels fit into it. But I walked out of this movie thinking about so much more, and even analyzing my own relationships.

I think that without these subplots, "Blue Jasmine" would play out as a film with one tone. Instead, the stories add color in addition to support. Just as Jasmine's unpredictable downward spiral appears to be nearing its seemingly inevitable conclusion, she meets a man (Peter Sarsgaard) who will infuriate viewers not because he's inherently unlikable or bad, but because Jasmine gravitates toward him as the only man she's met in San Francisco with the credentials to restore her to the Park Avenue-styled life to which she's accustomed before she's forced to spend too much of her time forging any iron for her spine from the fire of hardship. Jasmine's involvement with her new suitor reveals yet another layer of simply structured complexity to Allen's script, which at this point begins to question the very nature of what is real. Which relationships are real? Is wealth real? Can we recreate ourselves out of the ashes, and if we do, is that new creation "real" or just some manufactured story we tell ourselves to escape our smoldering pasts?

To what extent is Jasmine implicit in her undoing? "Blue Jasmine" certainly clarifies Hal's guilt - repeatedly - but Allen leaves the viewer to ponder Jasmine's. She is most certainly guilty of rampant entitlement, to be sure. And she's maddeningly delusional, not just in the sense of her medically real mental illness but her her maddeningly surface-level plans for getting back on her feet again. Jasmine is broken and condescending. But she was once alive and vibrant, even if only in that plastic, affluent sort of way.

Perhaps the greatest triumph of all is that Allen allows us to pass judgment on Jasmine as we see fit from where we stand in all of these recent financial crises and catastrophes of selfish consumer culture. And then, just to complicate things, he forces us to stare in the face of a once-regal woman laid terribly low, now sitting on a park bench with a few remaining pieces of her once regal clothing, her hair disheveled and her makeup gone completely. And we are able to hit pause on our grass-is-greener longings and see our modest lives as a gift, heading out of the theater to our reasonably-priced compact sedans, the Notorious B.I.G.'s "Mo Money, Mo Problems" echoing its truth in our brains with the same resonance that the song "Blue Moon" worked as facade in Jasmine's life.

...On The Movie's new ratings system

Since ...On The Movie is "a film teacher's reviews of and thoughts about film," I've often contemplated rating films by using a letter rating system, like school grades. This is the system most popularly used by the magazine Entertainment Weekly, and also by Brad Brevet - perhaps my favorite online critic - on his site Rope of Silicon.

Virtually everyone else, of course, uses a star system. Most typically, it's a four-star system, though Rolling Stone sets itself apart from most others with a five-star system. I started my career in college working as a film critic for our newspaper, and then moved over to professional entertainment writing, so the four-star system is in my blood. 

But after much debate with myself, and some wrestling with how to translate one system to the other, I will be revising my system. I am going to switch to the letter grade system; it just make sense when considering my professional identity and my goals for this site, which really combines my former dabbling in published film criticism with my continued aspirations of working in that field, and then rolling in my more than 13-year professional identity as a teacher - and especially a film teacher. 

So how will I now "grade" films? Here's my breakdown to help you read future reviews. (At a later time, I will apply my translation to past reviews.)

A: Films receiving a grade of A will be those that I would have previously given a four-star review to. To receive this rating, I usually ask myself the following questions: "Does it seem that this film accomplished everything it set out to accomplish?" and "Does this film represent the very best of film making within its genre or within the body of work created by its director?" Notice that I try hard not to make it about how much I personally enjoyed it. In fact, many of the films I find myself able to watch over and over again when they play on cable (such as "Ted" or "The Proposal" or "Pitch Perfect") are nowhere near four-star films based on my criteria. Yes, of course, my satisfaction as a viewer in terms of interest and emotional or intellectual connection does factor in to my ratings system. It's just that I allow myself to enjoy things of lesser quality while maintaining the ability to be realistic about that lacking quality to you.

A-: Films receiving a grade of A- will be those that I would have previously reviewed with three-and-a-half stars. These films are films that I find to be "excellent," with only minor flaws or things I wish had been a little different. They almost hold up to yes answers for the questions I mentioned above. Sometimes, I default to this rating when I apply the litmus test of whether or not I can see the film as truly enduring or becoming a classic. That might not be fair because it's impossible for me to predict, but it crosses my mind.

B: B movies are three-star movies. They are solid and enjoyable in spite of their flaws. They are movies I would watch again. They don't feel like a waste of my time or money. They are what I'm hoping for when I go to the movies, and I'm pleasantly surprised when they turn out to be more. I tell my students that in the real world, most people perform at a B level. Exceptional people are A's, and a C is just average. Most of us strive to be a little better than average.

B-: B- movies are two-and-a-half star movies. Under my old review system, this is where I ranked the truly average films - the ones that had clear moments where I enjoyed myself, either in terms of a great scene or a strong performance or some moment or two that stood out. This is my "nothing special" category. These movies don't make me angry that I wasted my time or money, but don't get me excited when I think back on them. Often, they are frivolous entertainments that require none of the deeper-level thinking I enjoy. Many times, they are the "stupid fun" movies that make for enjoyable television viewing in years to come. There's something about these films that makes them a little better than "just okay," but just as much to keep them from being ranked higher by someone with a critical eye.

C: I'll use the C grade for movies that would have previously received two stars from me. This is where I start to get concerned with my new system because I tend to predict whether I will like a movie before I see it. I do this for fun, not for employment, so I often avoid films I know I probably won't like, whereas if I was doing this for a living, I'd be seeing a wider range of titles and probably dispensing the lower grades with more regularity. But a teacher dreams of giving all A's, right? This rating is about as low as I'll go before I really start complaining about a movie. These are films with a few charms but too many flaws to ignore.

C-: A one-and-a-half star film under my old system will get a C- under the new one. By this point, there are probably only a few things about these films that I enjoyed. Maybe it was one actor's performance, or one scene, or something about the concept of the film. But I can classify these films as the ones where I am constantly finding myself thinking about what I think could or should have been done differently to improve it. Since I'm a big fan of a well-written script, these movies almost always have what I consider to be poor scripts.

D: Yuck. D movies are barely worth calling movies. Under my star system, they'd get one star. The number one usually stands out for me when I give a film this rating, because I often give it to a movie that had only one thing I liked about it. As I mentioned before, I try hard to avoid even watching movies that would earn such a rating, but it happens sometimes. And that utter disappointment I feel when it does perfectly translates to this rating.

D-: This is a half-star movie. I give them to movies that are essentially garbage but receiving the benefit of my good humor on the day I review it.

F: You guessed it...this is a zero-star film. Garbage. The ones where I sit in sheer confusion as to how it cleared the studio gates for distribution and am so distracted by those thoughts that nothing at all rises out of the muck to attract and redirect my attention.

+: You might have noticed that I don't have any plusses in this list. But that doesn't mean I won't use them. Movies that receive an A+ will be those rare films that I consider to be as flawless as possible. They will be films that I can't imagine could have been improved upon in any significant way, movies I can imagine becoming classics. Movies that I would nominate for the Best Picture Academy Award if it was within my power to choose those nominations. They will be films I consider to be an example for all films within their genres. Elsewhere, I will use a plus when I find myself stuck between two letter grades. In those cases, I'll try to be clear about why I found myself in that place.

So there you have it. I hope to provide my readers with some cool new updates to my site in the month to come, but in the mean time, I'll start by making this update to the content itself. And, as always, I'd love to hear what you agree and disagree with when you read a review. Add your comments whenever you feel so inclined!